Penny and Dime
by Natasha Vera
Summary: Frank Castle has no problem with people earning money. He has a problem with people exploiting children to make that money. Candice was twelve years old when he met her, a child prostitute. After dealing with her pimp, he takes her, an innocent in a budding war against dirtbags and devils. Why he did it, he doesn't know. But can Candice be his one shot at becoming the man he was?
1. Chapter 1

Daredevil

Season 2: Episode 2 30:00

Frank walked into the pawn shop, seeing the owner in some kind of deal with a man far to jittery to be a saint. The Owner looked up at him, hand immediately flinching to his right despite the nylon bag straps in his hands. Frank hesitated, standing in the doorway in case he had gotten a notice from some thug about him. He swaggered forward, hoping that was the case. The Owner grabbed a small wad of cash from the counter and held it under the Addict's nose, "Go on, get the hell out of here."

The Addict took it, too excited about his next high to count it right away, or take his bag. Frank looked around the shop, confidence rising with each step. Cockroach aisles, saint statues, steady supply of beer, the sound of a twelve gauge with a sawed off barrel pointing towards him; oh yeah, this was the place.

The Owner's eyes shot up and down his frame, hand on the shotgun. Seriously, Frank thought, I'm not that pretty to be jacked off in front of, don't think I can't see it! "Do I know you?" The Owner demanded. There was a slight squeak, he had the shotgun suspended by a belt or holster or something. If it went off, buckshot would rip a hole through the wood on the thin counter and could do some serious damage. Frank kept his face level, not the time to be cheap.

He slowed to a stop before the Owner. "I need an NYPD mobile communications rig." The Owner's eyes expanded, but he didn't falter. "One that gets encrypted tactical frequencies."

The Owner scoffed once before blurting, "What do I look like, RadioShack?"

It's in stock, Frank observed. He took a sip of his coffee, a move that told the owner he could taste the bullshit.

The Owner began to breathe faster, "Anyway, dealing in this shit is illegal."

In stock, on the premises, Frank thought. He couldn't pass this up, he needed to track what was going on and where. He reached into his pocket and grabbed the dirt money he picked up from the Irish and tossed it onto the counter. This was going to be expensive.

Immediately, the Owner blossomed. "Sure you're not a cop? 'Cause that's trouble I don't need."

Frank grumbled and took his money to turn away, not to leave the deal, but to hurry negotiations.

"Woah, woah, woah! I gotta ask, right?" The Owner shrieked, holding out his palms. "Just hold on." He turned his heel and flew to a cabinet locked with a foot long padlock and quickly opened it. Meanwhile Frank fiddled with the cash in his pocket, lightening the bundle so that he could buy dinner that night. The Owner pulled from the cabinet a tactical duffel bag and set it on his counter, smiling. "Straight outta Officer McDipShit's dashboard." He beamed. "Gets your tactical bands, surveillance feeds. Hell, it'll probably pick up the mayor banging his boyfriend." He looked up at Frank, huffing as though Frank would share his enthusiasm.

His smile faded when Frank only nodded his head. "It's a grand. We're talking about a one-of-a-kind item."

Frank withdrew his bundle of money and counted out the bills. Ten one hundred dollar bills for the machine, the surveillance tape came free. "What about the double-barrel under the counter?"

The Owner leaned away, impressed or frightened Frank couldn't tell with him. He counted out three hundred more dollars and tossed it onto the counter, changing the Owner's face again. Diligently, he pulled it from its suspension and unloaded it in front of Frank, handing it out handle first. Frank took up the buckshot, leaving the gun behind. He didn't want to be cleaning Dirtbag shotgun all night, and his other double barrel was already seasoned.

The Owner shrugged and surrendered the duffel bag, content with his sale. Frank took his purchases and turned to walk away.

"You- you sure I can't get you anything else? You know, I got it all, man."

Frank could hear him clatter around, picking up what sounded like DVDs or CD cases. By the sound of the types of porn he was naming off, possibly B-rated desperate-to-get-laid smut.

"Or maybe you're in the market for something younger! She's barely 12. Guaranteed!"

Frank stopped dead in the middle of the shop. He wasn't talking about the twelve disciples. He looked at his reflection in the shop door windows, the face of the Owner gleaming with delight at the prospect of making another sale. Something to count while that little girl did things to a stranger he would have never allowed his daughter to even think about.

Frank leaned over and set his bag down, earning teasing praises from the Owner. Frank stalked to the "open" sign and flipped it closed, the Owner laughing and moving towards the stairs he kept locked by the back door. Frank sipped his coffee, setting it on one of the glass cases where he could find it later. He marched back to the Owner, eyes settling on a trash can of aluminum baseball bats.

"What the hell are you doin'?" The Owner stuttered, eyes growing wide when he saw Frank take a perfectly shiny bat.

Frank tossed it up, ready to bat.

"Hey, man, just take it easy."

Frank looked at him. Nah, he thought. You didn't take it easy when you had your way with somebody's baby.

"I-I'm just trying to make a buck!"

Frank gripped the handle and coiled his arms back, You did. Not anymore. He swung, connecting with the Owner's arm and sending him flying halfway across the back counter floor. That arm was broken, Frank knew it as he jumped over the counter in one solid leap and stalked the Owner. The scumbag whimpered and blubbered, too dazed to scream. Frank kicked him over, staring him down. "Where is she?"

"You broke my arm!" The Owner screamed, "You broke my arm you sonofa bitch!"

Frank took the bent baseball bat and brought it crashing down on the Owner's leg, hearing a pleasant _Crack!_ "Where is she?" He demanded again.

The Owner screamed, leaning his head back to wail. Frank heard a noise upstairs, a thump. Frank moved to the staircase and tried the door handle, finding it locked. He raised the bat, "Give me the keys."

The Owner didn't hesitate. With his good hand, he pointed to a ring of keys on the counter. "The- the green one!" He moaned.

Frank took the keys and tried it, swinging the door wide open. Quickly, Frank took the stairs, cautious in case there was a guard. The stairs were carpeted, better for concealing noise. There was an apartment on the top floor that opened to a living room with a flea trap for a couch. Frank looked at it, seeing water stains on the cushions and no TV, only a video camera. This was one place where the girl would do her screwing. He heard a noise again, this time coming from the room on his left.

Frank tried the doorknob, finding it locked and hearing more movement from inside. "Stand back!" He called inside. With one kick, the door swung open, revealing a mattress with no sheets or blanket, wood floors, and a little girl dressed in a sparkly pink thong bikini with smeared lipstick on her face. The moment she saw Frank she shrunk away, face frightened. Slowly, she straightened and swallowed, walking towards him in what music videos would consider to be a "sexy gait."

"Business is done on the couch," She told him, pointing behind him. "I can start the camera if you want for an extra $50."

Frank watched her, chest aching and eyes stabbing as she moved towards him. "Stop," He commanded, looking away from her. "Do you have any clothes? Anything other than what you're wearing?"

She hesitated. "I have a school girl outfit, and a corset."

"Where did they get the school girl outfit? From a uniform place?"

"I think so. The skirt fits me down to my knees, though. This is easier to work with-"

"Put on the school girl outfit. Leave that thing here, and take off your makeup. We're leaving here." He turned his heel and thundered down the steps, gripping his bat in an even tighter fist.

The Owner, still crying, kicked his good leg with fear, trying to get away from Frank as much as possible. Frank saw nothing but red as he lifted the bat above his head and brought it crashing down on the Owner's face, over and over again until the hamburger meat was sprayed over the cabinets. He dropped the mangled bat, hearing it roll with satisfied clanging over the linoleum tiles, rising with the power surging through his veins.

"You have a jacket, kid?" He asked, turning his head to hear her response.

She squirmed from her post behind the corner, her breathing fast. Frank turned to look at her, waiting for her answer. She twitched her head left and right, "No-no." She breathed.

"Where does this dirtbag sleep?" He gestured to the body behind him.

"Up-upstairs. The room with the money."

"Go in there, find a shirt, pants, and a jacket. Meet me down here in five minutes. Sharp."

She bolted upstairs, likely knowing punishment for lesser crimes. Frank walked back to the business counter and took his money back, along with what other thousands were there for illicit deals. Girls weren't cheap.

The Kid came down wearing a plaid shirt and leather belt so that it looked like a dress. On her feet were boots three sizes too big for her but laced up tight, and draped over her arm was a leather jacket that could probably serve as a trench coat. She looked up at him, waiting for her next orders.

Frank looked at her, "I told you to get pants. Probably couldn't find any so I'll let it pass. Put the jacket on." Slowly, she donned the jacket, eyes still questioning his next move. He jerked his head out the door, "Let's go."

He walked around the counter, saying nothing. The Kid didn't move, she only watched him and the dead body of her pimp. Frank looked over his shoulder, "Do I have to repeat myself?"

The sound of her ridiculous shoes sledded to him, catching up when he leaned over to pick up his duffel bag. "You have family?"

The Kid shook her head. "My uncle sold me to Reddie," She looked back at the counter. "I don't want to go back to him. Please don't let me go back to him!"

"Nah, I won't take you back to him." Frank grunted. "I'm your uncle to anyone who asks. Not the one who sold you, the one who found out what happened and got you out. Now come on, when was the last time you had a good meal?"

"I get a cheeseburger every time I make a customer have an orgasm. I had cereal for breakfast this morning."

Frank shook his head. "Come on," He opened the door for her, trying to see clearly.

Lower East Manhattan

Frank watched as Candice ate her roasted chicken with both hands, sipping his coffee. For being twelve, she scarfed the thing like it was a bag of chips! Malnourished, intimidated, Frank thought. She can't go back into the system. He looked at her, "So you're name's Candice?"

She looked at him, face smeared with grease. She nodded.

"What happened to your parents?"

She lifted her head, cheeks full of chicken. Taking a sip of water, she cleared her throat, "My dad left when I was a baby. My mom worked to support us, but she went missing the night the bombs blew up Hell's Kitchen. My uncle didn't want me so he sold me to Reddie."

"Did you go to school?"

She nodded. "I was good at reading and social studies. I had to take math tutoring, though."

Frank chuckled, "Numbers was my thing for a while, then they started adding all these crazy symbols and it didn't make much sense after that. Reading was always good, you know, reading with a flashlight and watching everybody sleep." He smirked as her face lifted. Hope. "Where'd you go to school?"

She shrunk immediately, "P.S. 359 in Hell's Kitchen." Then she added quietly, "My uncle was the principal."

Frank looked away, vision blurring. Good memories of learning, but not of the place itself. She was first raped there. He inhaled, "Alright, Candice, here's what's going to happen." He leaned onto the table and looked at her, "You see the place across the street?" He jerked his head out the window for her to see a decently kept storefront.

She looked, "Yeah."

"It's called a Battered Women's Shelter, its where women and young girls can go get help. It's a safe place, only women and kids allowed in. You're going to spend the night there, I'll pick you up in the morning."

She leaned back, "Am I yours now?"

He looked at her. She meant it, she thought that now the world revolved around who owned her, that she had no control over herself or her body. "You listen here, no one owns you. No body can demand ownership of your body just because you're a kid or girl. No body! You hear me?"

She nodded, eyes wide.

Frank leaned back slightly, "These women are going to help you so feel free to take down any phone numbers to therapists or helpers that you need. They usually have clothes donation boxes so you can find a proper fitting wardrobe. And shoes." He reached into his pocket and took out two, hundred dollar bills. "If not then ask them to take you to Payless or somewheres." He handed her the money.

She looked at the money, looking at it like it was either a snake or the greatest thing in the world, Frank couldn't tell. She looked at him, "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

Of all the bullets in the world, those two questions broke the Kevlar. "I punish bad people." He told her, "I try to help those little guys who've been stepped on by bad guys."

She swallowed, still looking at him, "Do you want me to pay you back?"

He shook his head. "No. I don't want you to pay me back. I want you to be the kid you were meant to be." He motioned to her chicken, "Finish eating."

Frank watched from the sidewalk as Candice knocked on the door to the shelter, summoning a thicker set woman with red hair. From where he stood, Frank could see a scar on her breast from where her brand tattoo used to be. They were in the right place.

"Um, can you help me?" Candice asked.

"Sure, honey, what do you need?"

Candice looked back to Frank, uncertain. He nodded, trying to look encouraging. Immediately, the woman tensed, "Is this man bothering you?"

"No!" Candice told her, "No, he's my uncle. He took me away from my owner. He doesn't have room at his house right now."

Frank moved closer, holding his hands out when the woman straightened. "One bedroom, not in a good place. I found my niece and figured that she wouldn't appreciate sleeping in a bed with another stranger. You ladies know a couple of people who can help her, right?"

The woman nodded, "Yes, sir. We do."

"I'll come pick her up in the morning. I should have an idea of where I'll be staying by then. I'd appreciate it if she had age appropriate clothes."

The woman chuckled, "We can take care of your niece, Mr…?"

"Frank. Just call me Frank."

The woman nodded, her face full of skepticism that he'd be back. "Frank."

He looked at Candice, uncertain of what she should do next. "See you tomorrow?"

"What are you doing tonight?" She asked leaning towards him.

He smirked, "Working."


	2. Chapter 2

_So, I've gotten some awesome follows for this story. So much so that I felt bad about leaving you guys hanging for such a long time. I'm going to try and post regularly (key word: try)._

Chapter 2

Candace waited, turtleneck pulled to cover her frigid nose, by the window of the shelter looking down at New Yorkers trying to hustle their way through the rain. She searched their faces, looking for a gruff scowl, clipped black hair, a nose that had been broken several times before…

"Candace?" That familiar, kind voice called.

She ignored Mrs. Kennedy for a moment longer, staring down a tall man in a leather coat to see if it was him.

"Candace, I know you can hear me."

She sighed and turned to Mrs. Kennedy but otherwise didn't move. Mrs. Kennedy had her hair pulled back today, a nice change. She gave a sympathetic smirk, "Still no luck?"

Candace shook her head, letting her turtleneck slip down her nose to squeeze her throat.

"Don't know why you bother, sweetheart. The Punisher isn't going to come walking down the sidewalk."

"I don't know how else he can come in." Candace told her, "We're connected to two buildings on either side and he can't get in through the back."

"Candace, do you think that we can't report him back to the police if he did just show up?" Mrs. Kennedy put her hands on her hips, "He murdered those people. He escaped from jail, we will have to report him the moment we see him. It's the law."

Candace turned back to her window and sighed, "I won't report him."

"Come along, now. It's supper time."

A fish seller had donated his discards, and the cooking teacher had gotten over her cold, so dinner that night was steamed halibut and asparagus salad with some kind of vinaigrette that made Candace sneeze. Palace dining was what Mrs. Kennedy called nights like these. She would often eat among the other child prostitutes, teaching them table manners and what conversation was best for eating. Including Candace, there were seven girls and three boys, the oldest being fourteen and the youngest eight who was too "grown up" to be eating with his mother at the next table. Tonight, the Battered Women's Shelter dining hall was a quarter full, a slow night.

Mrs. Kennedy turned to Candace as she pulled out another Kleenex from her pocket, "Candace, honey, go and blow your nose in the restroom. It's good manners, and I'll take your asparagus away and get you some fruit. Will that be okay?"

Feeling like her head weighed a billion tons, Candace nodded and stood, scraping her chair over the linoleum tiles to saunter to the bathroom next to the dining hall. Located next to the one back door for donation trucks to come in easily, the bathroom was the first sign that Candace had had that told her that she was going to be safe and cared for. Each resident of the shelter had a job to do, with the rotation sheet moving jobs so that they could all share the load. The bathroom was the cleanest, most well stocked room she had ever seen! Her second night, when Frank didn't come back, she slept in the bathroom so that the smell of bleach could remind her of her mother and how she used to smell from cleaning houses.

Candace blew her nose, feeling better to be away from the sneeze causing asparagus, and looked herself in the mirror. She had had a mirror with Reddie, though he hadn't given her one. One of her former customers, a woman, had let it slip from her purse while Candace was obeying her commands. She had hidden it and used it to apply the yucky lipstick that Reddie had insisted she use. Now, she knew mirrors were helpful to look at one's hair to make sure it stayed in place, or that one's makeup wasn't too whorish for job interviews, or to see if clothes appeared too wrinkled or too old. Now, mirrors and body functions were good and not something to be punished for.

She washed her hands, taking a moment to smell the soap, (how wonderful it was to have soap!) then dried them on the rough paper towels, using the towel to open the door as Mrs. Kennedy had taught her to limit the spread of disease, then tossed the towel into the trash. The door next to the bathroom clicked with the wind, prompting her to turn and look at it. She frowned, watching it open an inch, then click closed again. She straightened, the coolness of fear coming over her. Men were not allowed into the shelter, and any who lingered long across the street were ordered away by the police. This was a safe place where women beaten into hiding could rest and rebuild. Candace had had nightmares of Reddie or one of her customers walking in through the front door to come and take her, but Mrs. Kennedy showed her how the door was locked after each person came in with the turn of a heavy lock switch. On top of that, there were cameras in nearly every corner, especially the back door. Candace turned to it, that comforting camera bolted to the ceiling like an alien head, always watching.

Candace stepped forward, remembering what Mrs. Kennedy had taught the children in case they should be kidnapped by former customers: scream, kick, repeat. Be loud, and draw attention. Bad guys hated attention. She touched the door, feeling it resist her easily. With a slight, shove, the door swung open to reveal the dirty back alley where trucks would back up to unload their wares almost every day. Outside the door was a book, a toddler's book entitled "One Batch, Two Batch."

She picked it up, feeling the worn, cardboard cover. Perhaps it had fallen out of the donations box? She flipped it open, smiling at the sight of furry animals and coins. Whoever had owned this book would never have the life she had.

"Hey kid,"

She nearly dropped the book. Her head snapped up and she pulled the book closer. She knew that voice, had yearned to hear that voice once more. But where was he? She looked over her shoulder into the shelter, but saw no one. In the alley, there was nothing but brick and the potential for rats.

Her lips parted and she dared to speak, "Frank?"

"Meet me here at nine o'clock tonight. Bring a bag."

"Where are you?" Her hair flew around her shoulders as she whirled around, feet crunching against the gravel.

"Look up behind you."

She flung around, expecting to see him hunched over her with a scowl she had seen him wear on the news. Her shoulders dropped as her hope flew off like a helium balloon; a camouflage walkie talkie duct taped to the red brick.

"Don't worry about seeing me, I can see you." It said, the tape shivering with slack.

"Where are you?" Candace repeated, feeling stupid for literally talking to a brick wall.

"Get back inside before they wonder where you are. You can leave the book and the walkie in the trash can in front of you."

She lowered her eyes to the metal trash can placed perfectly under the walkie talkie as though Frank had expected the duct tape to give way. Slowly, Candace walked to the trash can and looked into it, seeing the rusted metal bottom and nothing else.

"Get going!" The walkie talkie barked, making her jump.

Candace ripped the walkie talkie off the wall and placed it on the book, lowering both gently into the metal trash can so they wouldn't be damaged and scurried inside, closing the door behind her.

9:00 pm

Candace fumbled around her dorm room for her clothes and jacket, stuffing them all into her pink backpack. The girl who shared the room with her, Lucy, slept soundly with her stuffed teddy bear clutched close. Candace shouldered her backpack and crossed the floor to press her ear to the door, listening for Mrs. Villegas, the floor matron, to take her evening bathroom break. Hearing nothing, Candace dared open the door and poked her head out to peer down the hallway.

Mrs. Villegas, a former gang banger from Spanish Harlem, tapped a stack of papers on her desk and stood, looking up to the ladies' restroom on the floor. Candace paused, not knowing if she should shut the door, or wait for her to leave. Mrs. Villegas noticed nothing, and sauntered off to the bathroom, head held high. Candace shrugged and stepped out of her dorm, careful to close the door quietly behind her.

Candace had moved around the shelter many times at night, happy to be in a place where unlocked doors were a way of life. She knew the way to the dining hall and how to sneak past the front office, although she hadn't nailed sneaking around the cameras just yet and always got caught after a while. Quickly, she moved to the door next to the dining hall, hoping Mrs. Kennedy hadn't locked it. She grabbed the doorknob, and thought the dirtiest curse she knew. It was locked.

She slipped her backpack off, she knew how to open doors thanks to Lucy. Clawing through her shoes and new pair of jeans, she felt for her screwdriver and pulled it out. Quickly, she wedged the flathead between the door and the frame and wiggled it from left to right. Then, from her jeans pocket, she pulled out the swiss army knife she always kept with her since the police interviewed her after she arrived, and picked at the lock bar until it slid into the door. After that it was nothing to swing the door open to freedom.

The night air was cooler than normal, making her grateful for her new jacket. Candace threw her screwdriver into her backpack, pocketed her army knife, and stepped out into the alleyway. She closed the door and turned to the trash can where she had left the walkie talkie and children's book. They were there, giving her a sense of relief she didn't know she had been waiting for. She attacked the walkie talkie and tore off the duct tape.

She squeezed the smooth plastic sides, "Frank?" Her voice was still against the night, eerie.

"Hey, kid."

A smile slapped her face and a laugh escaped her chest. "Frank!"

"Walk out to the street, there's a taxicab with it's light off, number 4395. Get in the passenger's seat, I'll be with you the whole time, okay?"

Candace was walking before she could even think about it. "Where am I going?"

"Just to the cab. It's safe, I promise you."

She made it to the opening of the alley, both sides opening to the New York night with the street to anywhere and nowhere before her. There were three taxis parked along the street, two with their lights on, one pulling away, and one across the street with its light off. Candace hurried to it, feeling the emptiness of freedom against her shoulders despite her backpack as she moved. The taxi was faced away from her, displaying its number perfectly. 4395, just like Frank had said.

Crossing the street was the easiest thing, even with butterflies tickling her insides. She reached the passenger side window and looked in. He was just as she remembered him! Clipped black hair, square jaw with a crooked nose, and heavy build like a weight lifter. In one hand, he held a walkie talkie, in the other, he held the steering wheel. He turned and looked at her, revealing a black eye on his left side, and a thick scab across the bridge of his nose. His scowl, one that was famous all across New York, broke into a smirk.

"Hey kid."

"Frank!" Candace opened the door and jumped into the car, throwing her arms around his neck.

The arm that held the walkie talkie moved to hug her, the movement slow. "How are you holding up?"

Candace leaned away. "I'm okay. What happened to you?" She moved to touch his eye that was as black and purple as a bag of old grapes.

Frank moved his head away and loosed his arm. "Got in a fight. They don't let you watch the news?"

Candace nodded. "I saw your trial. Followed it in my TV hours."

He looked at her, leaning away slightly. "You ain't scared to be in the car with me?"

She shook her head, sitting back on the passenger's seat. "You punish bad guys. You punished Reddie for what he made me do. I can't be scared of you. I love you."

Frank chuckled, his upper body bobbing back and forth with the motion. "I can honestly say that's a new one."

"It's true. You're my Uncle Frank."

He smiled, a real smile. He gestured with his eyes back to the entrance of the shelter, barely visible from the taxi. "How're they treating you? You good in there?"

Candace shrugged and nodded, "It's clean. The cops are nice, they didn't take me away when I told them what I would do like Reddie said they would. They put me into the system, and told me that they'd put me in a foster home when I'm done being rehabbed."

"What did you need the rehab for?"

"They said I was mal-mal…"

"Malnourished?"

"Yeah, that. And I was hurt, down there." She pointed to the space between her legs. "It hurt to pee from some of my customers getting too rough."

Frank turned away, setting his jaw before turning back to her. "Are you fixed? Are you taking any medication? Any pills?"

"Not anymore. I stopped them yesterday because the doctor said I was healed up."

"How about therapists? Did anyone come and talk to you about what you did with your customers?"

Candace nodded, remembering Miss Olivia and Miss Lenore and their nice suits and big notepads. Miss Olivia asked questions about Jerry, her uncle. Miss Lenore only listened, asking questions every now and then to what she would say. "Miss Olivia and Miss Lenore were very nice. They listened to me, let me be quiet. They let me talk."

"Good." Frank nodded, "That's good." He looked back at the shelter. "Alright, kid. You've got a choice to make. You can go back inside, they'll put you in the foster care system where you got a fifty-fifty chance of making it. You'll either get a good family that'll adopt you or teach you some good things, or you'll end up with someone just like your uncle that'll put you back on the streets where I found you." Candace flinched, Frank cocked his eyebrow and continued, "It's a chance, and you won't know it until you're there." Frank inhaled, "Or you can come with me. I got a friend of a friend who I might ask a favor from who'll take care of you."

"And what will you do?" Candace asked, rising slightly. "Can I go with you?"

"You can't go with me. I'm not a nice guy to be around, and I can't take care of a kid. I've made a lot of enemies and if any of them see me with a weakness like a kid, they'll take that shot. And of all the bodies I've collected, I don't want yours to be one of them. But…" He looked out his window and inhaled and exhaled slowly, "You reminded me of my little girl when I saw you in that room, back when I first saw you. I would have never wanted my baby to know half of what you know already. So, I'm giving you a choice, Candace. Come with me, or chance it with them. You can always go back to them no matter what. Someone treat you wrong or you just want to talk, you can always go back. You hear me?"

"Yes," Candace replied. Mrs. Kennedy had told her that, too.

"So, what'll it be? Go back in, tell them you want to go into foster care, or take a ride with me?"

Candace looked back to the entrance of the shelter, watching an orange light flicker over the door. She slid off her backpack and nestled it onto the floor, then reached for the seatbelt and fastened it. Frank started the car.

She looked to him, "Where're we going?"

"Take a cruise upstate. It's going to be a long drive so you get some sleep."


End file.
